Origins
by Victoria Andersen
Summary: A Russian soldier, a crippled storyteller, a family pet, and a Medieval monk. What do they all have in common?
1. Chapter 1

Hi Everybody! Guess what? I'm alive! Isn't that great? I have a short message, then a longer message, and then a story for you guys!

My previous fans (if I have any left): I know I haven't updated in forever, but trust me when I say I have good reasons. I will update my other stories soon, probably Illuminate first, because I lost my notebook with my The Fix-its stuff in it. However, I do plan to keep both of those stories going.

Ok, sorry for that side note. This is a collections of one-shots for ROTG, the origins of each Guardian as I saw it. These were written before I knew about the books, so I apologize for them not being canon. The first story will be about Bunnymund, the second about Pitch (I know he's not a Guardian, but I got inspired), the third about North, and the fourth about Toothiana. Yes, I know that Sandy is not on that list, but I just couldn't think of an origin for him for the life of me. If this little thing gets popular, I might create my own Guardian and post their origin on here. If not, have fun with this. Oh, and every chapter will have a different sort of trivia question that I will answer in the next chapter. For this chapter, it's 'What kind of snake is it?' Make sure to post your guesses in the review box!

Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

E. Aster Bunnymund

It was a hot day, even for mid-December. Peter and Susan had taken their pet rabbit, Edmund, out into the yard to play. The children had Lucy, their little sister, with them also. The three children chased fluffy little "Eddie" around on the grass, laughing and tripping over their own feet. The girls' perfectly styled curls soon became mussed, and the boy's waistcoat sported a splash of fresh mud, but they were happy. After a while, they all lay down on the soft vibrant turf, with Edmund curled up in between Susan and Lucy, the white of his fur perfectly matching the shade of their dresses. It was an idyllic scene, with three innocent children sleeping with the fluffy, green-eyed, gray and white rabbit. He was small enough to fit into a lady's hand mit. Everything was perfect on that hot day in Queensland, until Edmund heard an unnatural rustling in the grass.

A snake was slithering towards the group. It was dark tan, with a strange pattern of arrows along its back. Its head was darker than its body. Every instinct told the rabbit to run, even though its rounded head should have been reassuring. The pet knew instantly that this serpent was deadly, and he tensed, ready to run. But it did not seem to have noticed him. Although this kind of snake usually hunted for small mammals like himself, the silent killer was headed for Peter's soft bare foot.

Edmund had a second to act. He could flee, as every nerve muscle, and sinew in his body were telling him to, or he could stay and fight the snake. His life was nearly over anyway; he was an old rabbit, nearing ten years. He had been a gift at Peter's birth, and had witnessed both Susan and Lucy's entries to the world. They were young, so full of life and hope. He couldn't just run away and watch them die. They were his children, and he would give his life for them. He bravely hopped forward, scolding himself when he noticed that his back legs were quivering. The monster noticed him at once, and tasted the air, tongue flickering back and forth to catch the scent. It decided that it preferred rabbit over young human, so it changed direction in its never-ending path. Edmund took a deep breath, leaned back on his haunches, and swiped the snake across the face with his claws.

The reptile lost its sense of hypnotic charming danger and immediately struck at his prey, missing by a hair. Edmund had leapt forward, and landed on the serpent's neck. He bit and clawed as the snake thrashed beneath him. Eventually he found that he was biting into the creature's throat, underneath, where the skin was softer. It reared its head, and for one moment, Edmund knew true, paralyzing fear as two venomous fangs sunk into his flesh. As the death-serum coursed through his veins, he found a new strength that he had never felt before. He fought with everything he had, knowing that he was about to lost it all. With one last cry of victory, he dug his front teeth deep into the vile creature's neck, completely cutting through the snake.

As it twisted and convulsed in its death throes, Edmund at last felt the burning pain. He squealed and flipped down onto the ground, feeling death knocking at the door. His cry of pain must have awoken the children, for he heard them, stirring, almost as if they were far away. When the little girls saw him, heaving and covered in blood next to as snake carcass, they screamed and ran inside. Peter, however, stayed out. He gently picked up his dying pet, and gently stroked his head, speaking softly and gently.

"Eddie, you saved us. You fought the snake, and won. Brave Eddie, not running away from something that could kill you." A tear, shining and sparkling in the sun, fell onto the rabbit's cheek, almost as if he himself had shed it.

"I love you, Eddie," the little boy sobbed out, his blue eyes full of pain. "You've been my friend forever, and I'll never forget you." _Forget you... _The words echoed in Edmund's mind, and the last thing he saw was Peter's loving face.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again! This one is really short, but I kind of wanted this to be ambiguous. The tone for this chapter is dark, blacks and browns. The amazing old-timey speech at the beginning is the actual speech used by Bernard of Clairvaux to call the men to arms. That leads me to the trivia question of today: Which crusade are the people being called to?

And the answer to last chapter's question is: the Inland Taipan! Congrats to those who got it right.

Thanks for reading!

Pitch Black

"O ye who listen to me! Hasten to appease the anger of Heaven, but no longer implore its goodness by vain compliment. Clothe yourself in sackcloth, but also cover yourselves with your impenetrable bucklers. The din of arms, the danger of labors, the fatigues of war are the penances that God now imposes upon you. Hasten then to expiate your sins by victories over the Infidels, and let the deliverance of the holy places be the reward of your repentance," the monk cried. The people began to chant

"Deus vult." "God wills it." Above the chants of the people roe the voice of the monk again,

"Cursed be he who does not stain his sword with blood." The people were energized as if with an electric current, running through them all. They wanted one thing: to kill the infidels who had taken Edessa. THey needed to avenge the fallen, take back the Holy Land, and protect Jerusalem. Why?

"God wills it!"

The king, Louis VII, congratulated the speaker, saying, "Good work, Bernard. The masses will join the crusade willingly now." The holy man bowed.

"Your highness, if we cannot regain the Holy Land, then my life will have been in vain."

In fear of their salvation, the men of France took up arms and marched east, ready to give their lives for God. Victory was expected. But all did not go as planned. The failure was huge, and the blame was pinned on the shoulders of the monk.

"It was the sins of the crusaders," he claimed, but no one listened.

"It was Bernard's fault that our good men died in the East," they said, "Bernard of Clairvaux." He sent an apology to the Pope. All of those soldiers, those brave men, fighting for Heaven, were dead, because he, and he alone, had inspired fear in their hearts. As he lay on his deathbed, breathing his final breaths, he thought _I did this..._


	3. Chapter 3

Toothiana

"Gather around, children, gather 'round. Auntie Isaye has another story for you." A group of children huddled around a woman seated on a rock in the village square. A cane of gnarled wood leaned against the stone, within reach of her thin hands. She was beautiful, with delicate, graceful features, and her long black hair was tossed and tangled up in the breeze. Her face was smooth and dark the only wrinkles being around her eyes and at the corners of her lips. Her voice was melodious and sweet. Despite her age, the woman seemed youthful and carefree in nature, and her eyes sparkled as she began her story.

"Once, little ones, there was a little girl, just like you. Her name was Mali, and the sun smiled on her. Her village knew her as the little 'little runner', for she would run everywhere. In the wet time she would dance in the rain. In the dry time, she would hide in the tall dry grass and smoke from the farmer's fires, and laugh as her friends tried to find her. WHen the frosts came, she would watch wide-eyed as the sunlight sparkled on the ground, and in the harvest, she helped toss the rice into the golden sky with joy. She lived in every moment, and did not bother herself with what had happened in the past, or what the next day would bring.

"One certain day, just before the start of the wet season, when the sun was illuminating the world, Mali was running like she always did. But this day, she ran farther than she ever had before. She was older, and she knew that she could run faster than the wind. She raced it, starting to realize that soon she would not be able to. The chains of age, responsibility, and chores were slowly closing about her wrists. It was the most beautiful day the girl had ever seen, and it all passed by in a blur as she ran, as fast as the birds, and faster than she had ever ever gone before. She stopped after a while, and lay next to a rice field.

But then, she heard the stomping footsteps of men, coming closer and closer. Mali jumped up to flee, but it was too late. THe men were raiders from the north, and they were merciless. Tales were told in the village of how they would break a little songbird's wings to watch it suffer. THey attacked the little runner until her world went dark.

When she awoke, she was bloody, and her whole body ached, but she was alive. She jumped up to run back to the village, and fell right back down, screaming in pain. Through her tears, she could see that her foot had been crushed, mangled, and battered to a pulp. She wept bitter tears as she crawled on her hands and knees back to her home, for she knew that she would never run again."

The children listening had tears running down their brown faces, and even the storyteller had to wipe her eyes. One of the little ones, a girl barely ten summers old, piped up.

"Is that the end of the story, Auntie Isaye? Because she could never run?" The woman smiled gently at the young one.

"No, dear. Mali made it back to her village that night, even though her palms had rocks and thorns embedded amidst a multitude of small cuts. The kind women in her village took care of her everyday, binding up her wounds, and doing their best to heal her foot. Within one moon, she was as well as she could ever be." The listeners' faces brightened, hoping that Mali would be able to run again.

"But her foot had healed twisted, so she could not run. She could walk with a cane, and she tried her hardest to run the way she used to, but she tripped and fell every time. For an entire cycle of the seasons, she was sad. It was like her soul had been taken by the raiders. She still helped around her village. like a good girl should, but she acted as if she was blind to everything that made her happy in the past. Everyone thought that her happiness had been broken, until one day, when the sun shone brighter, and the wind blew harder, and the world was even more beautiful than her last day of happiness. It was a festival day, so she was able to sneak off unnoticed. Mali hobbled as far as she could, out and away from the celebration, until she realized where she was. She was standing in the same field where she had been attacked. The blood had been washed away by the rains, and a new crop of rice was growing, but it was the same place. Gently she lay down and watched the sky, letting the sun warm her and the wind tickle her face. Slowly, she fell into a half-dream.

She was well, and she could run. She ran like the wind, faster and faster, until she came to a cliff. The wind raced onward, and so did she. Instead of falling, though, the wind kept her high in the air. She flew like a honey bird, all around above her village and through the fields and forests. After a time, her mind rejoined her body, and she knew that she was laying on her back, with her broken foot, but she was happy. The memories of running, which had tried so hard to keep down, flooded her mind like the monsoons in the wet season. They made her happy. SInce that day, Mali was like a sunbeam again. Everyday, her laughter could be heard throughout the village. Even as she grew older, she was still like a child in her joy. Whenever she grew sad, all she did was think of her memories.

No man wanted to marry a girl with a broken foot, so Mali decided to become a storyteller, passing on joy through the memories of the people to the children. And then, many moons later, she called the children of the village to her, the sons and daughters of her playmate's children, and told them her story. And she was happy." THe children were silent, absorbing the story and memorizing to later tell their families. They all had smiles on their faces. After a minute, Isaye seemed to become impatient with them, and said

"Now go, children. There is no time to sit and be sad. Go!" THey all scattered like ants, except for one young girl, the same one who had asked whether Mali was be able to run again.

"Auntie Isaye?" she asked shyly.

"Yes, child," the woman responded with a smile.

"Was that your story? Of how you hurt your foot?" The storyteller nodded. The little girl looked down at her feet, and shuffled them in the dirt.

"It, um, it was a very pretty story, Auntie. I think that it's my favorite." The cripple smiled brightly.

"Thank you, little one. Now, go play. Enjoy the sun and freedom, for they disappear all too soon." Just a few weeks later, as Isaye lay on her bed in her hut, gasping out her last breaths, the child stayed with her. The woman's last word was

"Remember..."


	4. Chapter 4

North

The wind, bitter cold, whipped and whistled around the canvas tents of the Russian forces. Every man huddled close to the closest fire, and bundled himself up for warmth. Why the Prince of Rus had ordered them to march in December, none of them knew. It defied every idea of logic, rationality, and military normality, but their ruler had ordered them, and they had to follow.

A man approached one of the fires on the outer rim of the camp, part of the cavalry division. The soldiers all jumped up despite the cold and greeted him enthusiastically.

"North! Greetings. How fare the divisions?" one man asked while welcoming the huge man with a hug.

"All are cold and missing their families, but still the prince leads on," he boomed. His comrades moaned.

"So we won't be back by Michaelmas?" another asked. North shook his head. He sat down near the flames, and stretched his hands out to warmth, letting the heat flow through his leather gloves to his numbed hands. A sigh escaped his lips and he wiggled his fingers as they thawed. A private brought him a bowl of stew with a hunk of rough finished his meal in silence.

Just as he drank the last drop, a messenger ran up from the center of the camp, saying that the prince had called for his presence. The big man sighed, dusted his hands off on his thick red robe, and stood, pulling his fur hat down farther over his ears. He followed the anxious courier with lumbering footsteps, his back to the powerful North wind. It carried more than a hint of frost.

His thoughts traveled back to his wife and children, safe in their village. Mayhaps the wind would blow a storm their way. Anya, Boris and Peter would enjoy the snow. Abruptly, he realized that he was in the presence of his ruler, and he bowed. The orders were short and to the point: go scout out the next village and report back. Ironically the largest man in camp was one of the best spies. He was to take his men to the settlement as soon as possible. None of them wanted to leave the camp, but the sooner they left, the sooner they could come back.

It seemed as though the hamlet had no idea of the impending approach of the army. Villagers were still dining at their friend's homes, the children still danced to the music of their whistling wind, and the mothers still baked warm bread and treats for the nourishment of their families. This was a thriving community; almost all of the homes were in good repair, and the people appeared to be healthy, happy, and prosperous. However, the village did not appear to be able to defend itself from an attacking force.

Just as North was about to collect his men and head back to report, a child came out of the house nearest him. He pressed himself to the side of the building, hiding his huge figure in the shadows. After a moment, he cautiously peered around the corner. The child was still there, staring at a lantern placed on a drift of snow. The little one seemed fascinated by the ever-changing patterns of the flickering flames on the soft fluffy snow. The light caused the snow crystals to sparkle and flash like prisms in rainbow colors, and those colors were reflected in the child's eyes, wide with awe.

Time froze in that moment for the soldier. He watched what seemed to be the personification of wonder and curiosity right before his eyes. Too quickly, a man stepped out of the house and called the youth. The child jumped in surprise and ran inside, taking the lantern with them, and the spell was broken. It was such a little thing, but it made the huge man's head spin.

He thought about what he had seen the whole way back to the camp, and the expression in the little one's eyes dogged his thoughts as he reported back to the commander. As he finished, Prince Sviatoslov smiled greedily.

"Perfect. Go tell your men and send messengers to the rest of the camp; we advance in the morning." He turned his back, signaling that the conversation was over.

"Sir, are you going to attack the village?" The commander turned halfway around, looking at his second-in-command with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course. It is the last enemy stronghold along the trade route. Once it is destroyed, we will have a clear path to conquer the capital city of our adversaries." North was back with another question in a matter of seconds.

"What will you do with the people? The women, the children?" His prince gave him a look of curiosity.

"Kill the men, enslave the women and children. Why does it matter?" At those words, the image of the child, eyes large with wonder, clapped in chains and led off to life of torture and misery, a slave for some family that couldn't care less whether the child lived or died, as long as they got their money's worth of labor out of them, flooded his mind.

"It matters because those people haven't done anything to us. Why can we not spare the village?" Sviatoslov turned completely around this time, and North saw a disturbing gleam in his eye.

"Are you contradicting my orders, soldier?"

"No sir, I am merely suggesting that we avoid the village when we head towards the capital."

"And therefore contradicting my orders. Are you going to go against me?" North stayed silent. The commander continued.

"I like you, soldier. You're strong, and useful, and the men follow you. So, I'll give you a choice: you can follow my orders, destroy the village, and I'll promote you to general; or, you can refuse to obey, and sacrifice you own life so that your village will be safe. What will you choose?" The leader was now facing him, the gleam in his eyes spreading over his entire face. He looked like a caged animal, snarling and biting at its enemy. North took a step back, half afraid of his lord.

"If I give my life, you will spare the village? Leave every person untouched, just as they were before we came?" The man assented.

The battle of his mind was won, the image of the child declared victory over what he had been taught, to obey authority and to fight for them. But what would his beloved Gena think? And Anya, Peter, and Boris? And his God? He knew that they would approve.

"I will give my life for the village." _And for the wonder of the child…_


End file.
